


our love keeps the things it finds

by goldtreesilvertree, mothwrites



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Bisexuality, F/M, Memory Alteration, Office Romance, Trans Male Character, i saw mothwrites and goldtreesilvertree writing het in the woods, slight horror and/or gaslighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldtreesilvertree/pseuds/goldtreesilvertree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothwrites/pseuds/mothwrites
Summary: Pryce and Carter's Deep Space Survival Manual, #469: "There are always risks involved when romance blossoms in the workplace. These risks may include a breakdown in appropriate professional behaviour, poor communication, memory loss, and death. Keep these in mind when considering spending more time with attractive coworkers."
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi/Rachel Young
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	our love keeps the things it finds

**Author's Note:**

> We are filled with riches and wonders  
> Our love keeps the things it finds  
> And we dance like drunken sailors  
> Lost at sea, out of our minds  
> You find shelter somewhere in me  
> I find great comfort in you
> 
> \- 'Riches and Wonders', The Mountain Goats

> > **1\. the christmas party**

It’s the stupid holiday party that starts it all. Jacobi looks about as pleased to be there as she feels, and from the death glares he keeps throwing at Major Kepler she’s going to assume he was bullied into this in much the same way she was. The death glares  _ she’s  _ throwing in Cutter’s direction are having even less effect than his. Eventually, while glaring at their bosses, they lock eyes with each other.

She gives him an obvious once-over and nods appreciatively. Jacobi, who most people only glimpse running past them occasionally in a sooty  boiler suit , cleans up  _ very  _ well. He’s accentuated the sharp lines and angles of his body for once instead of hiding them behind something baggy, and the crisp white shirt and jet-black suit make a lovely contrast against his still slightly-too-wild amber hair. 

Rachel already knows  _ she  _ looks fantastic in her wine-red dress, but the slight widening of his eyes and the smirk that follows still feel just as good, if a little surprising. Even more surprising is the drink he brings her a few minutes later.

“Owed you one,” he says in her ear under the forced jollity of ambiguously ‘festive’ music. 

She takes the cocktail - a  negroni , her favourite - with a quizzical look.

“You brought me coffee,” he reminds her. “Secretaries day.”

“Administrative professionals’ day,” she corrects him with a smile, and they laugh like they’re sharing a private joke, which she supposes they are. Ever since Saul had called them both  _ glorified secretaries  _ at another event full of forced Goddard jollity and too much alcohol they’d made it a personal joke – in that once in a blue moon, one of them took two minutes out of their day to bring the other coffee. She’d even written ‘happy secretaries’ day’ on his Starbucks cup. 

There isn’t a drink in his hand now, and he waves away a waiter bearing canapés.

“Are you fasting?” she asks, to make conversation.

“No, I just don’t drink,” he says, far too wistfully. “And all the vegetarian stuff got warm and gross hours ago.”

“You do too drink,” she accuses. She has a simultaneously vague and extremely vivid memory of the last time she’d gone to a bar for work drinks with people she  _ liked _ _.  _ Jacobi had joined her in a surprisingly tuneful rendition of  _ No Children _ after they’d both been given the same unearned dressing-down from their  superiors and drank vodka instead of quitting.

“I try not to,” he says, “at the holidays.”

_ I shouldn’t have asked that,  _ Rachel thinks. They enjoy each other’s company best when they’re sharing no personal information whatsoever, other than their work problems and how much they want to strangle their bosses. She found that she vaguely remembered the vegetarian thing, which worries her, and she makes an internal promise to forget his coffee order on purpose next time and put in something silly, like matcha powder or caramel syrup.

“Where are you?” Jacobi asks, amused.

Rachel comes back to the party with a start. “Apparently still here,” she groans. She grabs his wrist to read the time on his watch. “I suppose it’s still too early to leave.”

“Is it too early to duck into a broom closet?” Jacobi asks, voice suddenly strangled. She follows his gaze to where Aaron Klein is dancing with some man she doesn’t know.

“You dumped  _ him, _ ” she murmurs. 

“I  _ know, _ ” he hisses back. 

“You’re being pathetic.”

“I’m well aware!”

“There are no broom closets here.”

“They’ve gotta keep the super-intelligent roombas  _ somewhere. _ ”

“This way.” She finishes her drink first, because the Goddard party planning department doesn’t skimp on catering and it’s mixed to perfection. Her head buzzes a little as they skip out into the corridor, almost giggling.

_ This is dangerous,  _ she thinks, and then even more worryingly,  _ this is familiar. _

“Isn’t this usually Maxwell’s job?” She asks, once they’re safe in a badly-lit office room. “How did she get out of this?”

“She didn’t,” Jacobi says, jerking his head back towards the party. “Her plan is to glue herself to Kepler all night until she annoys him so much that she never has to come again. It might work, or one of them might end up dead.”

“Ten bucks on Maxwell,” Rachel says. She leans against a cubicle desk, watching him carefully. Tomorrow, Klein is going to get the news that he’s been selected for the Hermes mission. It’s for the best that they broke up, really. She doesn’t think this information will help Daniel, so she doesn’t say anything.

“Why did you break up?” She asks instead.

He sighs and starts playing with a little action figure from some intern’s desk. “I’m really bad at being a boyfriend,” he says finally. “Like, on the dancefloor, just then – I would never have done that. He actually  _ likes  _ coming to these things.”

“How horrifying. You can’t dance?”

“I  _ can.  _ I prefer not to. Especially not to this god-awful syrupy Christmas crap. ‘Holiday’ party my ass.” A smile passes over his face. “I dated this girl once, who worked in a Christmas shop  _ all year round _ _ - _ “

Rachel blinks. “A girl?”

“Yeah?”

“I thought-“

“I’m bisexual.” He frowns at her. “Did you not know that?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Rachel, you were  _ at  _ the bi employee thing the other month.” He’s tilting his head at her with a frown.

“You were there?”

“You don’t remember?”

_ Huh.  _ She scans the memory in her head: GGLUE had met up for something to do with bi visibility week, and she’d dragged herself along. It had been kind of fun in the end, pretending to be normal office workers celebrating a thinly veiled excuse to order cupcakes. But she didn’t remember Jacobi being there. 

“I wore purple and everything,” he says, lips twisted in a  mock-pout . “ _ Purple _ . It clashed with my hair.”

“Well, I’m devastated I missed it.” Rachel coughs, suddenly uncomfortable with how her brain has been failing her tonight. She can blame the negroni. “Ready to go back in?”

“Do we have to?” he whines.

“I’m better-looking than the guy he was with,” she decides finally. “You can have  _ one  _ dance.”

“What did I just say about dancing?” he grumbles, but he trails behind her anyway, and somehow they are dancing, talking and laughing and swaying slightly and despite their general attitude towards office Christmas parties, they end up enjoying themselves enough that when they look at his watch again, two hours have passed. 

She catches Klein looking over at them and feels silly, dangerous. “Is there mistletoe?” She whispers.

There is, in a darker corner by the punchbowl. “No,” Daniel laughs, “you don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be funny. We might get banned from ever attending Christmas parties again.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Rachel does makes sure that no-one’s looking when Daniel puts his lips to hers. Most people have left now, anyway. His lips are soft and warm, and he cradles her head with one calloused hand and all the care and attention he devotes to the most volatile of explosives. It’s rather lovely, actually. He’s full of surprises.

They break apart, and she’s about to tease him about how pink his face is when a flash of silver over his shoulder catches her attention.

It’s Cutter, and his face looks like

the thunder

before

the

lightning.

  


“Ow,” Jacobi says after Warren slams a pile of folders down onto the desk, right next to where he’s cradling his head in his hands.

Warren looks back at him, surprise evident on his face. “Are you  _ hungover? _ ”

Jacobi glares. “You forced me into going to a Christmas party. I had to get through it  _ somehow. _ ”

He doesn’t remember drinking anything, which is a bad sign. But it must have happened at some point. His head is  _ killing  _ him.

Kepler leaves him to  it and he spends an inoffensive morning trawling through research briefs for an upcoming mission.

Just before lunch Rachel Young breezes past, spitting curses into her Bluetooth earpiece. She ignores him and then places a Starbucks cup on his desk. On it, in black spiky lettering, reads ‘leftover eggnog’. She puts a hand to the microphone by her ear, silencing it for a moment.

“How did you get out of that awful party?” She asks, hands on her hips. “I need you to tell me whatever excuse you gave, so I can use it next year.”

“I didn’t,” Jacobi says,  reaching for the cup like it’s the pin to a sleeping grenade. “I just spent the whole time avoiding – you know who.”

Klein got the callup for  _ Hermes  _ an hour ago. Rachel knows there’s no point ever saying his name again. A friend would smile at him, sympathetically, she thinks. She thinks she should probably do that, and then she doesn’t.

“I thought you got out of it, though,” Jacobi adds in a voice that’s suddenly far too chirpy. “Secretaries, huh? Ships in the night.”

“I’m not doing it again next year. I swear to God. Yes,  _ yes,  _ I’m still here,” she snaps, Jacobi forgotten as she returns her attention to the earpiece. “Give me strength.” Rachel walks away without a second glance, leaving Jacobi behind with the life-saving coffee clutched close to his chest.

Later, he texts her:

_ why’d you put caramel in it _

_ I love caramel _

_ don’t tell anyone _

And she texts back:

  * _Yeah. Because people already think you’re the paragon of masculinity._
  * _How did you get my number?_



_ you gave it to me _

  * _I did?_
  * _Oh, at the paintball thing._



_ what paintball _ _ thing? _

  * _Maybe that wasn’t you._



__

> **2\. the elevator**

“We’ll have you out within the hour.”

“An  _ hour?!”  _ Rachel shouts back. Beside her, Jacobi winces.

“Most of our engineers are busy, ma’am,” the maintenance worker calls down.

“Oh no, don’t  _ ma’am _ her,” Jacobi murmurs, amused. She  _ hates  _ being called ma’am. She spits a curse at the poor maintenance woman, who leaves them with a vague promise that someone will get the elevator working by the end of the day.

“Look on the bright side,” Jacobi says.

Rachel whirls on him. “What is the bright side, exactly?”

“Well,” he says, taking off his jacket and laying it on the steel floor, “we haven’t had the chance to go on a proper date in a  _ while. _ ” He taps the elevator alarm theatrically. “And no-one can see us.”

Despite herself, she lets a grin slip through. They’ve been sleeping-together-wait-maybe-we’re-dating for almost a month now.

“If this is your idea of a romantic picnic, I am having serious second thoughts about you.”

“What’s not romantic about this?” he teases, helping her to the ground. She wore a pencil skirt today. Bad move. “We’re in an elevator that someone has  _ definitely  _ pissed in at some point, it’s a balmy 90 degrees, and I have in my bag…” he roots around, pausing for dramatic effect: “a satsuma and a  cheesestring . Please, name me a time when you have been more effectively wooed.”

She can’t help herself: she laughs. “I want the cheesestring.”

“Oh, harsh.”

Even though it’s a sealed metal unit, there’s still somewhat of a  _ frisson  _ around kissing at work. This thing between them is still too strange and too new to be anything near public, and they’re both fine with that for the moment. She’s continually surprised by his soft, expert kisses, so different from what she expected and yet now comfortable and familiar even though their first kiss was only at the new year. He’s put Klein out of his head completely, and she wonders if he’ll do the same with her when they both eventually realise they don’t  _ really  _ have time for this.

Rachel loves her job more than anything. Jacobi loves Kepler and Maxwell even more than that. If this  _ thing  _ got in the way they wouldn’t even bother to have a conversation about it. Still, it’s nice. It’s like they’re having a little holiday. Last week, he spent the whole weekend at her place, and by Sunday evening had learned to use the coffee machine like he’d been there all his life.

After some teenage-style necking, Jacobi says: “Maxwell asked me if I was seeing someone the other day.”

Her fingers flutter over his hip. “Why?”

“Someone asked for my number.”

“And what did you say?”

He kisses her again. He’s amused by her sudden defensiveness, and she knows it. “I said I wasn’t interested.”

_ So, there goes the ‘are we exclusive’ conversation.  _ “Did you tell her why?”

“No,” he says, drawing back. A little affronted. “I wouldn’t do that without asking you first. I – oh, hello,” he adds as his earpiece crackles to life. She can tell it’s Kepler from the way his spine straightens unconsciously. “No, I haven’t. Why? Uh, I’m stuck in an elevator. No, really.” He rolls his eyes at Rachel as he speaks. “Well she’s here too, so can you and Cutter get along without us for an hour?”

Rachel’s breath catches in her throat, and then she remembers there’s no earthly reason why she can’t be stuck in an elevator with a colleague.

“Yeah, if he asks, she’s here. Thanks.” He grimaces as the call abruptly ends. “Oh, he’s in a mood.”

“What, he really can’t do without you for an hour?”

“No, because Cutter is also in a mood. And –“ He’s cut off by a sudden jerk from the elevator, and then they’re scrambling to stand up and dust themselves off and look presentable. 

“So much for an hour,” Jacobi says, sounding almost disappointed. Like it really  _ was  _ a picnic.

“I’ll take you for a real picnic,” she laughs. “Sort of. We can go sit by the rocket testing strip again, you liked that.”

“When did we do that? Oh look, floor three.”

“I never got my cheesestring,” Rachel says mournfully. 

“Here,” he whispers, and throws it to her. They spring apart a second before the doors do. 

Cutter is there.

_ “Rachel, _ ” he says, with a disbelieving grin. “ _ There  _ you are.”

She steps out, but Jacobi doesn’t follow. “I was going to floor six,” he says apologetically. She realises far too late that there’s the faintest smudge of lipstick on his face, just below his cheekbone. Wine red.

The doors shut on him and 

the dial switches to ‘nine’ and

now it’s just her 

and Cutter 

and they are 

alone.

“What’s on floor nine?” Jacobi asks a day later.

“Advanced AI labs,” Maxwell says, not lifting her eyes from the control panel in her lap. “Dr Pryce’s office.”

“It gives me the creeps,” Jacobi decides, and then can’t remember why he thought of it at all.

> **3\. valentine's day**  
> 

Jacobi is drinking. He knows he shouldn’t  be; he knows there’s a reason that he gave it up, or at least toned it down. But he keeps waking up with little black spots in his memory which feel all too familiar. If he’s already getting blackout drunk every few months, then there’s no hope for his current stretch of sobriety. Might as well have one drink he’ll be able to remember in the morning and not miss out on  _ all  _ the fun.

The bar’s far enough from the office that even if Maxwell  _ did  _ decide to break her shut-in streak on her own, she wouldn’t catch him, and neither would any of their other colleagues. It’s not a typical Goddard haunt, no shining chrome and white faux marble and corporate memberships. Which is why Rachel Young is the last person he expects to notice at the other end of the bar.

Something strange comes over him, and he grins. He slides off his stool and onto the one next to hers, catching the attention of the bartender as he does so. “A  negroni for the lady,” he says, in his best Kepler-imitation-voice.

“ Mr Jacobi.” She doesn’t look at him right away, which is weird given her love for a corporate powerplay. It takes him a moment to  realise she’s as surprised as he is, and  _ embarrassed  _ along with it. “Making a night of it?”

“Oh, yes.” He gestures to his empty bottle. “I am having the time of my life here. You? Bad day?”

“Every day at Goddard Futuristics is the best day of my life,” she says, a passable impression of  Mr Cutter. “Bad evening.”

He looks at her up and down; delicate gold  jewellery , wine-red lipstick, cream sundress. Gorgeous. “Am I interrupting something?”

She snorts, incongruous with her carefully put-together appearance. “Nothing worth talking about.”

The drink arrives and he orders a refill for himself. “Come on, darlin’,” he says, exaggerating the Southern twang he doesn’t really have. “You’re among friends. Or secretaries, at least.”

Her lips quirk up in an unwilling smile. “My company-assigned Valentines blind date turned out to be not only blind but invisible.”

He winces. “Ouch. You sure they’re not just late?”

“You think anyone I’d be interested in would dare?” The Valentines Blind Dates are the worst idea that Goddard’s twisted excuse for HR have come out with yet – combining cutesy PR and corporate matchmaking in a way that makes him suspect they’re planning to establish a breeding program. He would’ve thought Rachel’s connection to Cutter would have protected her from this particular indignity.

“Fair point.” He takes a new bottle from the bartender with thanks and drains half of it. “Well, they missed out.”

“How did  _ you  _ escape this?” She asks, dark eyebrow arched.

Jacobi shrugs, and looks down at the counter of the bar. He thinks of pausing outside Klein’s office every day, breath stuttering, fingernails making imprints in his palms. He thinks of his team’s  badly-concealed attempts to change the subject whenever the  _ Hermes  _ comes up. He thinks of the blacked-out memories and the wine-red lipstick on his favourite coffee mug he still can’t place. “Kepler isn’t...  _ always  _ the worst.”

“Hm. Wonder what he’s got on Cutter to keep his people out of the matchmaking program.”

“Nothing I care to know about.” They both drink in silence for a moment. “Do you want me to leave?” He asks. “It’s just that I’ve done my fair share of drinking alone. It sucks, and I know you think it's tacky.”

“You’re here now, we might as well make an evening of it. And nobody has to know we didn’t end up assigned to each other by the Powers That Be.”

“Deal.” He clinks his bottle against her glass. “Let’s try and improve on the last time we had drinks together, yeah?”

She frowns. “Last time?”

Jacobi laughs. “Come on, you remember. Just after New Year’s? Those sugary frozen drinks for Blue Monday? I’m pretty sure someone spiked mine with rubbing alcohol or something, but I still remember most of it.” ‘Most’ is an exaggeration, but he waves off the doubt with another smile. “We ended up arguing about books. I bet you still haven't read any Murakami.”

Rachel blinks. “I bought  _ Sputnik Sweetheart  _ last month.” The cover had just jumped out at her. “I thought I’d seen it online or something.”

“Guess the recommendation must’ve stuck somewhere,” he teases. “Surprised that’s all you remember.” Not that he remembers much more than that. “Did you like it?”

“The bits I’ve caught on my commute are good so far. Takes me out of the car, at least.”

“I knew you’d like it,” he says smugly. “Don’t say I don’t know you.”

“Another point to my fellow secretary.” She sips her cocktail with a smirk, an imprint of wine-red left on the edge of the glass. “Did you end up picking up any of my Blue Monday recommendations?”

Daniel thinks for a second, then skews his lip in a question mark. “I actually don’t remember any of your recommendations.” And then he looks sad. Really, genuinely sad, and she doesn’t know why but she  _ hates  _ it. It doesn’t make her heart ache or anything, because she doesn’t have one, but it  _ does _ make her breath catch in her throat. She didn’t know that sarcastic little smirk was capable of leaving his face and she wants it back.

“They were probably audiobooks. I don’t get much time to sit down and read.”

“God, I hate audiobooks. They always pick the narrators with the most annoying voices.” It’s a joke, but he still looks so sad. “What?” He asks suddenly, frowning.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me funny,” he accuses.

“Not sure why you’d think that.” She takes a long sip, meeting his gaze, then  realises with annoyance that she’s emptied her glass.

“You  _ are.”  _ he says again, before gesturing to her glass. “Another? Martini?”

“ _ One  _ more, and then we can call this fake date a night.”

“Boy, do I feel wooed.” 

“If I were  _ wooing  _ you,  Mr Jacobi, we wouldn’t still be in this dive.”

He winks and takes a last sip of his drink. “The night is young.” The sadness is gone, replaced by a new kind of mask. One with a sparkle in its eye.

She raises her glass, clinks it against his bottle. “Let’s see where it goes.”

*

There’s a wine-red lipstick smudge on his pillowcase. Also, Rachel Young is asleep in his bed, but it’s the smudge that’s got his attention and he can’t fathom why. He shakes it off and plays with a long strand of her silky black hair. He can’t help grinning, a little smug.

She gives a mumbling groan, burrowing into the pillow. “G’way...”

“Sorry,” He chuckles and drops the lock of hair. “Want anything? Coffee?” He’s still smiling. It’s been a while since he’s slept with anyone ( _ don’t think about Aaron),  _ let alone a woman, and it feels... nice. He’s so sickeningly content in this moment that it almost scares him.

“Coffee’s good.” Her voice is always a little husky in the morning, softened by sleep. She rolls over and blinks, eyes focusing. “Morning.”

“Rachel Young is not a morning person,” he states, amused. “Who knew.” He looks around for his glasses and notes the debris of their night together; a bottle of red wine on his dresser, a lacy white bra on the floor next to a discarded strap-on. He’d opened the windows before they went to sleep because she likes to wake up to fresh air, and the slight breeze plays with strands of her hair across the pillowcase. He blinks. And blinks again.

“What?”

Daniel shakes his head like a dog with water in its ear. “Deja vu.”

“Mm, I’d  _ definitely  _ remember this happening before.” She stretches, catlike, blinks at him slowly. “Someone mentioned coffee?”

He looks at the digital alarm clock on his bedside table and sighs. “We don’t have long. I can make coffee while you take the bathroom, if you like.” 

“Such a gentleman.” She rolls out of bed, stretches, and plants a sleepy kiss on the corner of his mouth as she disappears into the bathroom as if it’s almost routine.

Daniel allows himself a smug little victory wiggle before he gets up to make coffee. He’s shuffling mugs around to find the one she likes when something out the corner of his eye grabs his attention. He tilts his head at the clock in the kitchen, and the next thing he knows he’s staring at shards of china on the floor, blood dripping onto them from his thumb.

“That’s my favourite mug,” Rachel pouts from the doorway.

He whirls on her, staring. “What are you talking about? You’ve never been to my place before.”

“You don’t remember me crashing here after karaoke?”

The pain in his hand is sharp and grounding. It cuts right through the fog, and he’s far more sure of himself when he says: “I am absolutely certain that  _ we  _ have never done  _ karaoke  _ together.”

“You do an excellent John  Darnielle impression. There was  _ applause.” _

He shakes his head firmly. “No. I have absolutely no memory of that. You’re thinking of someone else.”

“Must’ve been a bigger night for you than I thought. Still, I liked that mug.” She’s still pouting as she crouches to pick up the fragments. 

He has no idea why he’s about to say this to Rachel Young, of all people, who he barely knows and couldn’t care less about him, but they did just sleep together and he’s freaking out, and: “I keep forgetting things.” He bites his lip, trying to concentrate on the sharp pain of the cut on his hand. “No, that’s not exactly it. I keep waking up with... time I can’t account for.”

She frowns. “Blue Monday.”

“It’s not just me,” he agrees. “Paintball.”

“The Christmas  party .”

“Lunch on the airstrip.” He  _ does  _ remember that one, but it’s hazy. If he doesn’t concentrate, the woman sat next to him, grumpily eating a salad, isn’t Rachel. It’s Maxwell. Maxwell always  eats in her office.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

He busies himself with running cold water over his hand. This is suddenly all too much. “Grab me my other arm?” He asks. “Should be by the bed.”

She picks it up with an obvious lack of discomfort that implies she’s done it before, which doesn’t make sense if- “Here. You kick it under the bed before you go to sleep so you don’t step on it.”

“I know that.” He clicks it into place, flexes his wrist, and frowns. “Why do  _ you  _ know that?”

“Why do you know my  favourite cocktail?”

There’s water in his ears again. He shakes. “We need to go to work,” he says finally. “Kepler will have a fit if I’m late.”  _ Kepler will have a fit if he knows I’m getting blackout drunk this often. _ “And I... need to talk to Maxwell.”

“My car isn’t here.”

“We took a taxi,” he remembers. “No designated driver. Guess you’re sharing my bike this morning.”

“ _ Shit. _ No way to keep that on the down-low.”

“You could always take the bus?”

“And end up fired for poor timekeeping? I’ll take the walk of shame.”

“I hope you know how to ride pillion.” He looks at the clock again and winces. World’s fastest shower and coffee for breakfast it is. 

He’s pretty sure no-one notices when they arrive in the employee parking lot. Rachel’s wearing her sundress from the night before and complaining about how the skirt’s all creased now when a security camera jerks its head in his peripheral vision. 

“Two minutes to spare,” he says triumphantly. “If you run you can make it to the office before Cutter’s morning announcements.”

She’s already gone, a flash of black and white and gold disappearing through the revolving glass doors. He follows her inside, taking a different route to his floor of the building. But two minutes later he doesn’t hear Cutter’s departmental memo. Because Cutter is standing in his office, leaning against his desk, smiling as he fiddles with an old Starbucks cup.

“Daniel,” he says, as if he’s delighted to see him. “Just what am I going to do  with you, you little Romeo?”

Jacobi blanches. “Um.”

“You know, Rachel’s a  _ very  _ valuable asset to the team, but I just can’t seem to keep you two away from each other! It would be  _ adorable  _ if it wasn’t an unnecessary distraction on company time.”

Jacobi is starting to get a headache that has nothing to do with the wine from last night. “Sir, I... This is a personal matter.”

“Unfortunately, our HR policy says this is very much a  _ professional  _ matter, at the discretion of your managers. And as Rachel’s manager, I have to say, I can’t approve this star-crossed romance.”

“It’s hardly- it's been one night!” Dimly, he  remembers that it’s a bad idea to raise his voice at Marcus Cutter. It’s less dim and more of a blaring alarm when he  realises that Cutter’s hand is gently cradling his chin.

“Oh, Daniel,” he sighs, nails digging in,

“we can’t keep

having this conversation

over and 

over again.”


End file.
